


In such a way I hunger

by Peasantlock



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M, Modern AU, and other intrigue, presumed mafia activity, slooooow romantic development
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-01-24 02:19:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1588061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peasantlock/pseuds/Peasantlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo is homeless after being swindled out of his inheritance and house. What's a homeless man to do but seize the opportunities that come his way? Not his fault the opportunities in this case involve a certain presumed Family of Organized Crime and employment as a burglar in their service. Take what you can get.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a tired, sad man

Rain fell over Esgaroth, or, well, probably not over all of it for Esgaroth was a very big city.

Stretching from its origin upon the Long Lake it had spread to engulf its inlets and outlets as well. The city centre upon the lake and a few kilometre's radius from there had been constantly updated by time while the outskirts that had once been mere shoots of other cities some two hundred years ago had remained quite as they were.

Bilbo was currently walking a cobblestone street on the older side of it's southernmost district, a part of town smothering the outlet into the River Running. He could not see the river from where he stood but like a person who has lived there for most his life knew always in which direction it lay none the less. The Long Lake was north, River running to his right, he was currently walking westward to the edge of the southern district.

It was summer but in the north summer didn't mean much when it had rained constantly and the damp clung to skin like saran-wrap trapping the chill drawing all the warmth and energy out leaving you sodden, shivering and miserable. Though it must be said it was a particularly cold summer that year. Normally it would steadily grow more warm around the end of June with the occasional fall of warm droplets, just enough to nourish the grass. By the end of August that warmth would reach its sweltering peak stopping the rain entirely though the humidity was stifling, grass turning yellow and crisp 'the rot month' it was called for it would be so warm and humid milk left out for less than half an hour would be thoroughly spoiled. Then around the third or eighth of September the air would turn chill with the oncoming storms while the water of long lake would be pleasantly warm until the twentieth.

  
This year it had not stopped raining since the June storms. The air would warm the slightest bit while one could still feel the cold creeping in the shadows and then it would rain again and all hope for a pleasant summer would be ruined. So it had gone on all throughout July and now it was the height of August and Bilbo was freezing. He half expected to see his breath ghost before him as he yanked his sodden coat tighter around himself but it was apparently not that cold though it felt like it.

The old buildings were so tall and the winding alleys so thin the sun's light would not have found its way down where it anything but in its zenith. He'd lost his watch along with most other possessions over the last few months but guessing he'd say it was around midnight which explained the lack of warm light spilling from the windows.

Every other doorway inhabited a smoker or two hiding from the rain giving him strange looks before continuing their hushed conversation. He tried to tell himself they weren't muggers. Muggers didn't look like muggers. The fact that he knew that was more disconcerting than the people themselves. Perhaps to them, he looked like a mugger? No, he glanced at his blue fingertips, it was more likely he looked like the homeless man he was.

The street he was on looked like depression. Tall trees planted in rows dark and bare, nary a leaf on them and the cobblestone, the walls even the sky was dark grey, lit only by a few dim streetlights and glaring signs of open late restaurants. Everything had an air of tattered around it and he thought, didn't that make him fit right in then?

  
Walking past a gate he heard it creak a little in the wind, one of those ominous sounds but, he peered in to the small space beyond, it looked clean and uninhabited so he walked in. Anything to get out of this rain, really. The courtyard within was circular and the walls of the complex appeared to stand guard over it like sentinels, watching his every move but he saw no faces in the windows discouraging him. Walking up the small stair on the far side to the old double door revealed an old eviction notice in it's right window. His heart rate doubled without his say-so truly he could not be so lucky that he found a place he could squat in just like that. Trying the door revealed it to be locked, of course he wasn't so lucky.

A windowpane crashing would surely be heard across the street even had he managed to sneak in unnoticed and who was to say it would even work anyway, that stuff was only effective in the movies and it was a really old door.

The gate creaked again in the wind, calling him to leave but there was a passage deeper into the courtyard. Worrying at his lips he tried to lean from his vantage at the gate to see into it but could not. The gate creaked again, he whipped his head around half expecting to see a guard or something, someone there. Just the wind. No one there. Still he took extra care not to make any sound as he crept down the small five step stone stair and round the corner to its left.

The two spaces together would form a wonky figure eight from above, broken only by a small sliver that must be a single room or a small corridor above the gateway. Large enough for a car or van but not anything larger.

Perhaps, and indeed he was right on the other side was a garage port. Nervously fluttering his fingers he grabbed the outside handle and yanked, too hard, he felt a painful twinge in his shoulder and a pop in the wrist. His shout was drowned out by the cacophony of the port wrenching open. Adjusting his grip, and remembering to be more ergonomic about it this time, he nudged the gate just high enough so he wouldn't have to duck going in.

Fully open the small garage port turned out to be an even smaller loading bay seemingly designed for those small catering firm vans or the like and it was surprisingly pristine. And modern.

Suspicion conked at his head like a brick wall but really the other option was going back out into the street, refusing to meet some very inquiring looks over the noise they would know he made and then continue to walk through the night and he was tired. Bone weary. To the point of sobbing. He wanted to rave like he was four years old and sick of auntie Lobelia's cheek pinching and get tucked into the cosy ottoman in the living room with the patchwork quilt for an afternoon nap. But now the quilt, the ottoman and even his living room belonged to Lobelia.

And Lobelia doesn't share.

Crushing his fears like roasted cardamom he straightened his back and ventured into the bay. Nothing jumped at him immediately, that was comforting.

Halfway inside he realized he had no light and the small haze from the courtyard was barely enough in the first place. Luckily the open door would not be seen form the street or even form most points of the other yard at least though it mattered little, he was well an truly blind a mere five steps in.

Trembling he scuffled a little more, praying he wouldn't bump into something unexpected until he reached the landing. Crawling up on it he decided to stay on all fours though the concrete scraped at his palms until he thumped into the far wall.

A little frantic searching later he felt the inner door and confound and praise his holding luck, he found it unlocked though the wondered just how he was going to find anything in this house if all of it was as dark as this.

  
That fear turned out to be largely unfounded as the windows were large and numerous, he merely had to make sure he navigated mostly the hallways closest to them. The inside seemed to hold true to the design of the loading bay, being a deceptively more modern building than first appearances would state. It was very utilitarian though. Built like a sanatorium or a hostel. All traces of the no doubt great and noble aristocrat's abode it had once been gone.

The doors were heavy steel and as he tried each and every one down the first floor row along the windows they were all locked.

Below him he could see the still open gate of the bay gaping and dark in the night, he shuddered and tried more doors. Reaching the final door along the way, the one presumably leading to the stairwell of course that was the only one that was open.

Down the old marble stair led the pathway to the other side of the heavy wooden double door and up, presumably more locked doors. Too tired to climb he stumbled downwards clinging on to the cracked, polished wood railing to a refurbished foyer.

He started a bit. Even in the weak light and blearing as he was he could tell the place was as if grabbed straight out of a nineties music video. Spice girls or something of the like. It was eerie. Still, he eyed the small, fake leather couch and decided to at least try and find something more comfortable before settling.

He was by no means a large man but that tiny couch would be the beginning of the end for his back and he was not fond of sleeping in a foetal position. Neither would it be particularly nice with his soggy clothing and should he remove them, which he'd never do what if he was caught then he wouldn't even have clothes to his name anymore (homeless and naked no thank you) the couch was fake leather. It would be most disgusting. Albeit soft. Well, softer than a floor.

He could've found a park but the guard had been looking at him strangely in the last one and making himself, a Baggins, known as a tramp and getting arrested was not on his to-do list. There weren't a lot of parks in the old districts. Mainly private courtyards and old cemeteries and he would not be caught dead sleeping in a cemetery. Provided he wasn't dead in the first place.

Dragging himself up the short spiral stair to the second floor again he found a lounge. Not only a lounge but a lounge with a perfectly respectable cotton dressed couch he could have cried with joy at the sight of it were he not so thoroughly exhausted in the first place.

Collapsing on the IKEA couch he decided to at least remove his sopping coat, electing to clench it in his hand instead before dropping off into oblivion.


	2. beggars and choosers

"What on all of Earth is this person doing here?"

  
"You said we needed someone, you said I couldn't just hand out employment flyers, _you said_.."

  
"I know what I said! _I had hoped_ you would have more _sense_ than to drag a person into our very..."

  
He must've made a noise for the whisper shouting people to suddenly stop.

Uncertain of whether to scream, cry or attempt to run he let out a whimpering whine as close to that of a small golden retriever puppy a man can get as he slowly sat up from the couch still clutching his coat, mildly less sodden, in a white knuckled grip.

In the sofa he currently occupied and the sofa pushed up against the other wall and even the plushy chairs all situated around a large coffee table were a lot of people. Just sitting there as if they were having a meeting, nothing odd about a strange man sleeping on the couch.

A nervous young gentleman with a sort of bowl like cut excused himself softly before scooting a little closer from where he had been pressed up against another fellow to make room for his sprawling. Bilbo counted thirteen of them.

"Ah!" One of them, wearing a funny hat, piped up "yer awake then! I'm Bofur, and you are?" he said, stretching out a friendly hand across the table that Bilbo would have to rise, bend and reach to take. He didn't do any of those things instead he just gaped at the offending appendage like he'd been presented with his cousins' ear and was expected to pay ransom for the rest.

A few good long whiles of awkward silence held before Bofur slowly retracted his hand and sat down again.

"Perhaps, a cup of tea?" A grey haired man suggested, to his right beyond the quiet youth. He nodded dumbly, still scanning his eyes back and forth at the crowd. Slowly he slid his legs off the edge and bundled up his reddish brown coat in his lap, swallowing nothing, his mouth and throat were desert dry.

"Yeah!" A ruffian with long brown hair shouted "tea will make you right well and talking in no time. Haven't really woken up before you've had a cuppa have you? Of course not." To which a slightly similar but older and just as long haired grumpy guy shot up his hand to grab at the youngster's neck scruff before roughly pulling him down onto his seat with a barked "Kílí! You're a Durin, act like one and use the manners your mother taught you."

The name rang out like a chime and old newspapers flipped by his inner vision like he was back at Uni reading microfilm at the library for research. Durin, durin the name seemed familiar oh "Not Durin the Durins responsible for that floater two years ago! The Moria raid! The missing people! Durin!" His voice had taken on a slightly, very, hysteric note at the end. The grump flashed a menacing glare at him while Bofur clapped his hands and said in the most inappropriately jovial tone "why, yes! Exactly. Glad you know them already then, no need for much introduction."

Bilbo recognized the two Durins as being the people who had whisper shouted as he woke up, meaning he was very much in a building owned by them and very much surrounded by theirs.

Though this nineties youth show from Disney channel décor was not at all what he had expected from the Mafia.

Accepting a dainty cup of what he suspected was chamomile from that one person with a shaking hand and taking a sip, feeling it's warmth trickle down and bloom in his stomach he decided not to fret too much. He had been given tea and offered to introduce himself, no spooky cellars, abuse or thinly veiled threats. No handcuffs or knives or guns and everyone around him seemed, well, as relaxed as can be expected from this odd situation.

A third person cleared their throat, an old man with a snow white shock of hair and beard and a style to it that did nothing to dispel the image of cotton candy. "Balin, at your service. Now that you've had time to settle and we all know you're quite capable of speech. Would you please inform us of your name sir?"

  
"Oh yes, pardon my manners. I am Bilbo Baggins. At..yours." he said emphasising his sentence with a decisive nod instead of a handshake and sending his now dry curls bouncing against his temples. One could not handshake while holding a teacup that looked like an antique in precariously weak fingers. Neither could one handshake thirteen people without a disturbing amount of clamouring.

The white haired old man sent him a warm look, Bilbo had no idea it had been so long since someone had bothered looking that kindly at him. "Then, master Baggins. We have, a proposition for you." The dark haired Durin took turns eyeing Balin and himself suggesting the man was speaking for him.

  
"Will you be our Burglar?" Kílí blurted out of the blue, bouncing out of his seat again. "I'm sorry what?" Bilbo sputtered.

The Durin let out a long suffering sigh and fluttered his eyes closed. For a split second Balin held a smile that communicated much the same kind of indignation at the childish behaviour before it turned back into the much softer one directed at Bilbo. "Ah, it is true. We are in need of someone of...expertise of the like we do not have within our ranks but " he clicked his tongue "finding such a person has not been easy. If you would consider such employment we would be grateful."

  
Bilbo blinked a couple of times, having completely forgotten his tea and thought to himself that never once had he stolen a single thing in his life. How could he ever be a burglar? What would he need to burgle? Well there was the time he was quite adept at sneaking cinnamon rolls and candy bars into his room without being noticed but his mother was sharp so it had only worked half the time.

He was seriously considering this wasn't he? Yes, he was. It would mean an end to park sleeping and miserable rain walks.

But how would he go about being a burglar to these people when he wasn't a bloody burglar!?

  
"Well are you a burglar?" An old man with an ear trumpet sitting to his left cried out after a while and really why did he have such an old fashioned thing as an ear trumpet had he not heard of hearing aide? "Well.." he deflected. Oh god, he really wanted to be a burglar. Better a burglar than a tramp, his mind supplied.

"Hah!" the ear trumped shouted "he said yes!" A cheer broke out amongst the others though they should have heard perfectly clearly he said no such thing.

  
"No, no. No!" he shouted. " I am, truly sorry. I am _not_ a burglar."

  
The Durin scoffed "Of course not. Look at you, you look more like a beggar than a burglar." The sentence came with a sneer and though it cut Bilbo could not say it wasn't true. Belly warm and relatively full for once his anger flared none the less "Well if I am such a beggar, Durin" he spat "I can't be a chooser and from what I gather neither can you. I may not be a burglar _yet_ but I could be."

  
Before The Durin could shout abuse at him Balin cut in with practiced ease "Good, good. It is really all we can ask for. Welcome."


	3. job description

Before long he was introduced to each of the members of the little group.

The quiet youth was named Ori, his older brother Dori was the one who'd supplied him with tea, they had another brother called Nori who'd spent the meeting quietly observing from the corner.

The Durin was called Thorin. Kílí turned out to be his nephew on his other side the other nephew, Fílí. Balin he already knew and his brother Dwalin was a shock to behold in comparison being much taller and more menacing by half. Ear trumpet was called Oín and he had a brother with the most shocking mess of red hair named Glóin.

Then there was the oddly upbeat fellow Bofur and his brothers Bifur and Bombur. Bifur, as he was told, had suffered quite the head injury as evident by the huge scar down his left brow. it had left the man unable to speak anything but a certain language and it's sign form.

Bilbo was not told which language this was.

He figured he would not be told a lot of things.

  
Introductions had been made and there was an air of finality above it all but Bilbo still had something he needed to be told before they all made to leave. A lot of things really. Taking a quick breath he spilled it all out in one go "so why do you need me as a burglar and what do I need to burgle exactly?" The small chatter that had broken out amongst the members died down as all focus was once again on him. Again, Balin was the one who spoke.

"We need you to burgle a jewel."

  
"A. A jewel? What kind of jewel?"

  
"It is called _the Arkenstone._ " Kílí said with an overly dramatic whisper.

  
"And what..if I may ask is the arkenstone, that you need me to steal it? It is not the worlds largest diamond that's called something else I've never heard of this jewel before."

  
"That" Thorin cut in "is not for you to know."

  
"Suffice to say" Fílí said, appearing far more level headed than his brother though obviously only through longer practice "that it is important to us and that's really all you need to know." The comment ended with a large albeit strained smile, signalling a warning not to continue that line of questioning. Bilbo had never had a high security job but he had always been fond of watching crime shows on late night TV and this, he gathered, was what they call 'being on a need to know basis' and that's where he stood as of now.

How he was going to steal a jewel he would not be told anything about would be interesting to see but not really any of his immediate concern. With that major question out of the way Thorin and his nephews disappeared. As did Nori and Dwalin. Returning to, whatever it is they do he presumed. He didn't really want to know.

  
Soon enough it was only Bilbo and four others; Bofur, Bombur, Ori and Dori around the coffee table.

The silence stretched on as Bilbo felt like he was going to drop off again. A single night's sleep did not make up for weeks of fretful ones. Neither did a single cup of warm tea do much for a stomach that had not known food for two days, regular meals for even less.

Once again it was Dori who broke the silence, inquiring if master Baggins would like breakfast and Bilbo wanted that very much. They stood and he was ushered into another room on the same floor. Filled with a cluster of smaller tables it looked like any old dining room from his school days. Simple red iron-footed chairs that were not meant to be comfortable and scraped horribly fitted in fours around abhorrently tiny but thankfully square tables.

The round ones were just impossible and Bilbo could not fathom why they existed for they never fit as many as they gave out to and left almost no surface to do anything let alone place things (which you’d think would be the entire point of a table). Not much of a table at all, those small round ones.

But these tables were square and rickety, nasty chairs aside quite nice to sit at.

Bombur made for the small kitchen area further in while the rest stayed behind, though still silent and pensive and soon enough there was a small feast laid out before him.

Bread both white and dark, with seeds and without. At least three different kinds of jam and two different kinds of tea. Cold cuts and cheese both hard and soft. Orange juice, Grapefruit juice and apple juice and that was just the top of the mountain.

His fingers twitched and he worried his lip. None of the others seemed keen to eat so he hesitantly reached for a sunflower and pumpkin seed half baguette and some butter. As if on cue Ori then grabbed an apple and the others small assorted things.

Dori seemed to settle with just a cup of tea.

Bilbo felt odd being offered a feast like this while the others did not eat as much as he, who practically devoured the whole table in the span of half an hour but then he thought, maybe they’d had breakfast before and were just being polite. Maybe, his crime watching, burglary set part chimed in, maybe you’re being kept under watch. Never alone. The thought did not disturb him as much as it perhaps should.

Why wouldn’t they keep an eye in him? It was only smart.

Finishing a glass of apple juice his stomach seized as if clinched by a vice so hard he almost coughed it right up again. Bofur who was sitting to his immediate left and had been talking to Bombur about some old cookie company’s new recipe that didn’t quite taste right set a hand on his back and asked him if he was all right.

Bilbo was just about to answer that he was just fine, peachy, he just needed a little air, maybe some peace and quiet when his stomach lurched and he realized that statement would be very untrue.

By then everyone around the small table had noticed his pallor and looked amongst themselves with worried faces. Maybe he really should not have had that last piece of apple, or was it the bread? Maybe he’d suddenly become allergic to gluten? Either way it was not staying where it was, no fighting it.

He waved his hand frantically while breathing through his nose. Ori caught on and, with a surprising amount of strength, how much muscle did he hide beneath that knitted parkas? dragged him out of the room through the lounge, down a hallway and into a bathroom in a matter of fifteen seconds where Bilbo proceeded to empty the contents of his stomach all over the white tiled floor. “I’m sorry” he croaked out between wet sobs and on shaking hands and knees dragged himself over to the nearest bowl while Dori told the ones who’d trailed after to fetch Oín, and maybe some cleaning gear.


	4. doctor's orders

Bilbo retched a few more times and wiped snot, tears and vomit from his face with paper while Ori and Bofur swabbed the floor.

He apologized again and again for the inconvenience, for the mess and his general state of being really what a manner to spend the first hours of acquaintance and was informed time and time again that it wasn’t much to apologize for. Having been given a glass of water by Bombur who’d tiptoed past the cleaning pair he washed his mouth of the foul taste with the first gulp before taking a proper sip. He felt feverish and weak and the cold of the floor seeping through his trousers did not help the shivering at all.

  
Curled up on the floor, hunching over a toilet bowl snivelling and miserable and red eyed is how Oín found him. Striding in with purpose.

“Are ye quite finished?” He asked with a serious expression.

Bilbo felt his stomach and took another sip of water, testing how it reacted before nodding. Cramping and hurt but not in danger of hurling anymore.

Oín nodded sagely before motioning someone to pick him up from the floor and well that for Bilbo found his legs weren’t very steady, actually a lot of things weren’t steady, he felt like that one time one of his cousins, you know he can’t quite remember whom, took him to a carnival and he had to ride all the fast and spinning things. Indeed this situation was very much the same as what had happened then, too.

Up the corridor into the lounge again, down the stair to the foyer, that looked even more nineties in the light now that he could see the neon greens and pinks of the wall clearly. Into a hallway left of the one he had emerged from yesterday all the way to the very end where they turned right and entered what turned out to be a small office filled with poultices, old books with Latin names and a chart of the human body.

There he was sat on cushioned wooden chair and the others shooed out of the room. All except for Thorin, apparently, who nailed him to his seat with a hard stare. “Don’t mind him lad” said Oín but really he didn’t see how that would be possible the man had quite the presence about him.

Doing as he himself had instructed Oín ignored the Durin in the room and went about the usual check-up.

Man must be a doctor though searching the walls Bilbo found no diploma, the room though was all kinds of brown and beige all over with splashes of burgundy here and there, a stripe on the small pillow on the chair, the carved wooden details of a bookend, it made it look a hundred years old.

He was instructed to cough and take deep breaths while enduring a cold stethoscope down his unbuttoned shirt front. He had his throat checked and felt sorry for the man, having to feel his bad breath. Then there was a light shining right into his eyes and a checking of pulse and blood pressure before he finally sat down, writing his findings in an old binder. Slapping the binder shut he coughed.

“Tell me, master Baggins how long have you been starving?”

  
Bilbo stopped breathing. The hard stare turned positively prickly and he absolutely refused to even glance to the corner. “I..beg your pardon?” He squeaked, still a bit hoarse.

“How long was it since you ate?” he clarified.

“Excluding, just now you mean? A…two days?” Oín scribbled a little more. “and regular meals?”

  
“How long..since?”

  
“Yes.”

  
“Oh.” He felt oddly reluctant to answer.

Self-conscious and even guilty to confess the truth of the matter.

It was starting to become glaringly obvious what had happened and really he should have known better. He had heard of starvation and its effects it had simply never occurred to him that, well that it could happen to _him_.

Ever.

  
“Three months” he whispered.

“Speak up lad! I am hard of hearing.”

  
“Three!” he coughed, voice breaking “three months. About.”

He had managed with his savings to pay for food until then, though he had been homeless for near six. Then he had been robbed and with no access to his savings and no ID to go to the bank with then no money to pay for a new ID and once he’d finally resolved _that_ issue someone had already emptied his account and the police were downright atrocious at helping him the meals had dwindled. He missed the wristwatch he had gotten from his father the most. Old silver thing with a wind up function that suited his nervous fidgeting perfectly.

  
An old clock ticked from somewhere deep in a bookshelf and Oín continued to scribble. Bilbo hazarded a glance to the corner and was rewarded with a pair of dark blue eyes frozen and murky. It was exactly the kind of bad decision he had suspected it would be. Deflated he sank back into the chair even further. “Your reaction today was not so surprising considering, then. We will have to be careful in monitoring what you eat for a few weeks. Starting slow.”

  
He didn't think he had fallen so low beneath the line of healthy.

The first three months he had eaten seven times a day, a habit from his mother and then after the 'incident' he had managed to go by a couple of soup kitchens and had pilfered food off of plates left at restaurants like that piece of bread you were supposed to eat to your salad lunch but some people just...don't which he always found odd why would you not eat the bread when that was the best part of the whole salad lunch?

He supposed it could be called a form of stealing, thinking back on his earlier thought process during the 'recruitment' but it couldn't really be called stealing when it was going to be thrown away anyway! You can't really _steal_ trash...well... he thought back on an article some years back of a league of not so gentlemen that had done just that. He corrected himself; you can't really steal trash...in terms of perishables in small amounts.

Yes.

The door opened and closed and finally, without the stifling presence Bilbo felt he could breathe again. Oín finished his writings, questioning Bilbo on his medical history as he felt he was a step away from nodding off again. That is, until his eyes landed on a very specific Latin title. "Is that..is that a first edition of Systema Naturae!?"

  
"Hm? Oh..no, second edition. And a copy at that. Now, go up to the cafeteria again and tell Bombur to make you a nice plate of sheer chicken soup. It should be eaten with one piece of toast, no more and ah" he raised his pointer finger and pulled out a packet from a drawer "this." Bilbo eyed the packet that smelled quite pungently of some kind of herb or spice. "You're going to have to pour it into the soup, it'll dissolve much like a broth and don't pull that face it does not taste vile!"


	5. books

The soup Bombur made turned out to be some form of watery broth with the occasional piece of chicken and carrot, though it tasted very nice regardless.

He almost ate half of it before he could no longer put off the inner nagging that meant he had to add the weird herb mixture to the thing. Oín was right in that it really did dissolve into the soup like broth and merely tinted it darker, making it look like it has simply been made that way.

Taking a sip it tasted slightly more, round, earthy but not necessarily bad.

Shrugging he finished the plate and scraped it clean with the last of the toast. This time his stomach did not rebel at the food and Bilbo thought it was half thanks to the mixture.

Having finished "lunch" for it was closer to that time now and being very alone in the white light from the windows his fingers itched to take a closer look at the good doctor's bookshelves. Even if that Systema Naturae was a second edition copy indeed it was still an antique and most definitely worth a lot of money.

Though to Bilbo of course it was priceless, as all books. Excepting a small few that were abominations that did not deserve the title of bookdom.

His inner literature major somersaulted at the thought of just picking that book up and not even reading it just admiring the pages and the mastery that must've gone into its making. Realizing he was staring into space he shook himself out of his reverie and took a moment mentally re-routing the way there before he set off down the stairs and to Oín's office again.

  
The man wasn't there. Of course he wasn't bloody there though, his increasingly incessant burglar mind pointed out, that might be a good thing. Sneak in, take a look at the books and sneak out. No one had to be any the wiser.

Bilbo swallowed at the thought. It was enticing but pissing off his criminal employers was not. In the slightest.

Hearing footsteps in the corridor he realized he had hovered for too long, his hand halfway to the handle.

Rounding the corner was the man himself, sporting a mildly surprised expression at finding him here.

"Master Baggins, stomach giving you problems still?" he said, fiddling with a set of keys as antique as everything else he seemed to deal in.

"No, no I was just paying a visit because I was curious about your books, really."

  
"My books?"

Bilbo nodded vigourously.

"They all look positively antique and well, I fancy myself a bit of a bibliophile you see might I have a look?"

  
Oín laughed "Lad, if it's books you're after I can assure you Thorin has a collection far larger than mine, also, mine are mostly of natural history, medicine and the like."

Bilbo tried very hard to contain the childlike glee that overtook him but some of it must've shone through for Oín kept looking at him with a mirthful expression as if he was an impatient child told to wait for his sweets on Saturday.

"And, hrm, if you don't mind me asking, where is this library?"

  
The library turned out to be on the third floor of the inner building. Away from both the courtyard and the street, towering a floor above the rest.

It was a huge room with an atrium that had been kept in the old style of the time the rest of the complex had not. Lush velvet carpet covered the floor and the large windows were completely shut with heavy drapes, all the light in the room came from a single rose window above.

Only parts of the atrium window were dyed glass and those were pale yellows and pinks spread out like a halo framing the clear centre.

The shelves themselves were at least as tall as Bilbo three times over and above that a second story with a beautifully crafted brass handrail.

Had the windows been uncovered the light would had been a perfect highlighting of the shelves and books stacked up against the opposite wall. Between them were a few chairs and a desk laden with thick tomes and an old glass lamp.

The room wasn't as large as such, he could easily move from the door to the far wall in twenty strides or less and it contained for all it's splendour and two stories no more than nine shelves all in all. Five on top and four down below. The four lower were broken off in the middle by a door or it would've been five, perhaps six. Though it wasn't as magnificent as the beauty and the beast library he had imagined in that short time it was still an impressive room. Albeit a bit dark and gloomy.

Then again from what he had seen that fitted it's owner well.

  
It made up for it with content though, oh did it ever.

Letting his eyes slide over the shelves he could find few books less than twenty years old and they were meticulously divided into sections of interest and then by alphabetical order without the use of labelling.

On the ground floor appeared to be novels and fiction. Austen, Shelley. Then on the other side of the door dictionaries and encyclopaedias. Most notable at least three different sets of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Reaching the far end of the room he found a small curved wooden staircase leading to the upper level and there he found history, art, biographies and a few books in runic.

Some were missing, must be the ones lying on the desk. He slipped out a worn copy with the title "the Line of Durin" figuring it would be a good start. The binding creaked a little and it smelled still of something sweet, he buried his nose in the pages and inhaled before shutting the book again, electing to read it sitting in one of those armchairs.


	6. back and forth

He was half asleep reading the ancient text and hadn't even noticed he had been reading the same passage over and over (something about Durin the deathless and his completely impossible escapades. Over 700 years old? really?) when the door between the shelves slammed open and in strode Thorin grumbling and with purpose.

Halfway to the desk he halted and turned slowly to meet the eyes of a gaping Bilbo, book hanging precariously from his fingers.

Curled up with his feet under him as he was in the chair he could not bolt as was his first reaction so he merely continued gaping as the other man narrowed his eyes and went to snatch the book from him.

"What are you doing here?" he barked.

"Reading, of course what else would I be doing holding a book, in a library?"

There was not an immediate reply, instead he watched as he clenched his jaw and threw a murderous look at the drapes before refocusing. "I meant, that you are not supposed to be here."

  
"Oh, but Oín said, well he told me the directions so I just assumed.."

  
"Well you assumed incorrectly. Now, master Baggins if you would kindly take your leave of this room..." he gestured with an air that was most contrary to the gentleman like manner of his words to the door.

"But" Bilbo said "but I was just curious about the books! They're absolutely marvellous! Extraordinary! Are you certain, if I may not sit in here that I can't at least borrow one? Maybe two? I promise I would take the out most care and really!"

Now he was really getting into a rant and Thorin got that look about him of a person patiently counting to ten and over.

"Really! How was I supposed to know I could not be in here I have not been told anything! Save for that bit about the jewel but that was sparse at best. I would not even know where to get food had not this morning happened at all and I don't know where to sleep or what to do or if I am allowed to leave and in that case how I will be allowed back in and" and now he'd lost him, and his own control of the words as well. When it rains it pours and Bilbo was talking up a literal flood so fast that the other man couldn't quite keep up any more.

The boiling anger was replaced with confusion that deepened and then his eyes just, glazed over.

"Or am I just supposed to break in through the cargo bay again? Why were all the lights out I understand that you seem to wish to keep an air of abandonment about this place but how am I supposed to get around at six in the morning or evening in this place without light and which corridors am I even allowed to walk down anyway and oh my god do you have some sort of curfew? A lights out? Must I follow that?"

He was finally stopped, between drawing in a gulp of much needed air and the start of a new tirade by a pair of large hands wrapping around his shoulders.

He was gently backed against the chair, that he had forgotten he had risen from in the first place, and sat down "...wait here. And" Thorin said. Wielding the old book. "Do not touch this book. Any book! But this book in particular. Do not move. I will be back shortly."

Bilbo could not have read the book even had he had a defiant streak, which he did not, because Thorin took it with him when he left.

  
The door closed behind him and then opened far too soon again for it to be his return. A blond and a brunette head poked in before the two brothers sneaked into the room. "Hello mister Baggins." said Fíli, checking the perimetre while Kíli stayed a beat to listen at the open door.

They shared a look and nodded slightly. "Just wanted to check on you."

  
"Yeah" said Kíli "to make sure uncle hadn't murdered you yet."

  
"I hadn't considered that, do you think he would?" Bilbo answered deadpan, to which the brothers started chuckling.

"Ahah, no. Pure exaggeration on my brother's part."

  
"Complete hyperbole" Kíli shook his head in a flippant manner.

Strange sense of humour. Especially considering people had ended up dead at the behest of their family many times before.

"Really though we just wanted to say..that.." Kíli started backing towards the door, Fíli picked up "that we like you, really, we do. Haven't seen someone piss uncle Thorin off that much in a long while."

Now they were both standing with their backs at the door, ready to leave, nervous "and if you need anything.." Fíli put his hand on the handle. "a rant, a hug, a place to hide..." Kíli backed towards the open door. "We live just two corridors down that'a'way, large painted door can't miss it" and then he was gone. Fíli stood at the open door just a moment longer "just knock 'dime' in Morse and we'll answer, yeah?" and then he was also gone, silent as a wind.

The door closed with nary a sound behind him and Bilbo was once again alone in the library.

  
It hit him, then, that he did not know a whit of Morse.


	7. terms and conditions

He had not had much time to recover from this encounter when Thorin came striding in again, with much the same air about him as last time except now he was carrying a minor stack of papers.

He grumbled a little before the desk, cluttered with other things as it was, before pinning Bilbo with a meaningful look. He rose to obey whatever it was without thinking. "Hold these" Thorin said and heaped the papers into his arms before he started clearing the old tomes and neatly stacking the notes at the top right corner. Text down, he noticed. Though it mattered little most of it was written in runic anyway.

  
Runic was a strange occurrence.

Old script as it was it had been adapted with the times to align with the sort of 'English equivalent' though the language it had originally represented and been written in was veritably...dead. Spoken only by the occasional scholar and by the people who claimed to have heritage, trying to keep it alive. Still, it had lost it's status as a minority language some fifty years ago and never regained it. Shame. Bilbo thought.

He had not majored in linguistics but literature and language went hand in hand. Though if this man has books in runic it's possible he can both read, write and perhaps also speak the language. At the very least write in it for the quick glance had revealed anything but a westernised script.

  
He was broken out of his reverie by the papers being lifted out of his hands. Thorin laid them out on the desk, one of them folded out as a map and the others were...legal documents? A finger tapping against the map was a cue to listen.

"These" Thorin said "are the plans for the building." He slid his finger to the upper left corner "and here is where we are."

  
Then began a long lecture about where he was allowed to go and not to go.

The library turned out to be out of bounds but the rooms Kíli had mentioned were not, and could be accessed through a lower stairwell, provided he didn't actually go into the rooms. Electricity was working but only allowed where it could not be seen from the street. Leaving only about three locations in full excluding the cellar which Bilbo silently promised himself never to enter, heaven forbid the mere thought of it raised goosebumps.

Which was also why he was to be given a room in the inner complex.

  
Breakfast could be served between six and nine in the morning, lunch between eleven and two and dinner between five and eight.

"If you need anything more there are, there can be, apples, oranges. Fruit. Or would you rather something else? Biscuits?" Thorin said, Bilbo merely nodded along to all of it. It was all good, really.

There were other nonsensical rules that he became a bit too muddled to actually hear, something about strange sounds and not approaching people when they looked a certain way? but since he remembered clearly his own reaction being something like 'why would I even do that in the first place' he wasn't too concerned with it.

Why was he so tired anyway he had been completely capable of running on little sleep lately and it hadn't affected him in the slightest...well beyond the usual molasses thinking and frequent headaches he hadn't been this, this ready to drop, falling asleep on his feet tired.

Was it because of the throwing up? The meal? The sort of, kind of, almost safety? He yawned and the rich, warm smell of books in poorly recycled air filled his lungs and nose. Ah, perhaps it was that. Perhaps it was just this place, dredging up old memories of pleasant evenings in the old University library and a time where his heart was at ease.

Fingers gently prodding at his arm woke him up again and he found himself having swayed slightly, leaning against the table surface. A flash of concern in Thorin's eyes and then it was gone and they were marble again. He pushed the legal documents towards him "you'll need to sign these, just general things, vow of silence..permission to the rooms I've discussed. rent, payment, rendering of services and the like." and then he was handed a fountain pen. Exquisite and probably hand-crafted with the most intricate geometric design in gold inlay with pearl details on a deep navy blue base.

Oh, right, he might actually need to sign with it instead of just staring at the thing but first he went over the documents. Never ever sign a document without reading the fine print, his father had taught him, and well too for he had weaselled himself out of some pretty hairy stuff over the years.

Though it hadn't saved him from being weaselled out of his house and inheritance now had it, the bitter poison of his vicious inner self provided, quite uselessly.

The passages about eventual funeral charges and possible causes of death was disconcerting but maybe that's what happens when you decide to become a criminal. Getting possibly shot and stabbed and..incinerated? Well. No gain without risk, and so Bilbo scribbled his round cursive signature on the line and sealed his fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, terribly sorry


	8. a green door

Thorin had grunted in some form of approval before gathering the documents into a neat pile again and grabbing at Bilbo's right arm.

He seemed to think better of it midway as he let go, opening his mouth but not saying anything, closing it again and resettling the hand upon his back instead. Steady and warm.

He was led through the door, past the nephews poking their heads out their rooms and giving him twin looks of intrigue and mild concern. Kíli smiled. Fíli nodded.

Bilbo passed them and was gently escorted down the marble stair, uneven from a century of use and precarious for his wobbly tired feet. Down a few winding corridors, much narrower and far less sensical than the others had been though that could be attributed to the age of the place and finally down yet another familiar and industrial one and stopped infront of a generic, painted green iron door much like all the other ones he had seen. His room. And wasn't that an irony when he distinctly remembered his own door having the exact same colour.

Bilbo wondered for a second if he'd need to count the doors, floors and corridors to find his way back when he spotted the painted number 26 above it. Doing a quick count anyways he found that indeed the number was satifyingly logical as they were on the second floor, sixth door down. He smiled. Thorin noticed and hummed in kind and handed an oddly shaped brass key to Bilbo, warm from handling and wheighty compared to having used nothing but plastic keycards for the past fifteen years.

"I will see you in the morning master Baggins. Sleep well."

He was halfway to arguing that he would not sleep at all, why, it was only four in the afternoon at most when he swayed again and shot out a hand to steady himself on the door. Perhaps sleep was indeed a good idea.

Upon entering the room he found the inital analogy of 'hostel' to stand firm. The furnishing was spartan at best with a single aluminum framed bed upon a pristine false wooden floor.

The bed was pushed up against the left wall of the narrow room. Right in front of him was another of those huge windows and just below it a small trash can. The walls were painted white and the ceiling was strangely valved, a remnant of the building's old bones.

He hung his burgundy coat on a small peg next to the door after a moment of hesitation. Anxiety threatened to boil up at the mere though of discarding his clothes but he pushed it down as he removed his vest.

The sheets on the bed were stark white and rustled slightly beneath his fingertips as he laid it down, sense and propriety screamed at him not to even think about wearing his grimy old clothes to sleep. Habit gnawed at his insides to do it anyway. After a moment of steeling himself he unbuttoned the shirt and slipped it off as well.

Standing there, looking at his own bare skin for the first time in months in the cold afternoon light the weight of it all settled upon him like a smothering wet blanket. Like the first time in swim class the teacher asked them to show up with a set of clothes and take them off in the water and Bilbo, being an average swimmer at best not even capable of floating, had gotten stuck in his own soaked sweater and panicked in the face of drowning.

He didn't panic now, looking at his mottled skin. Stained from grime and what he presumed to be skin fungus from weeks of not washing up all stretched over a bony chest and ribs he could count coming down to an eerily concave stomach. He hadn't known, and even when he'd known he hadn't seen.

Letting his palms rest upon his midsection he missed the pudge that used to be there. Even when he had been teased his whole life and had at times wished the muffin top away... not like this. He wanted it back. He would have it back, he promised himself as he slipped off his trousers, far too easily, and shrugged into the provided nightshirt. He would regain his weight and his health, if not his house and his wealth and he would not ever fall this far again.

The linen smelled of unfamiliar detergent and grated uncomfortably on his skin as he tried to settle.

There had been a time when he used to revel in newly washed sheets. There had also been a time when he had thought to plant an apple tree in the garden in memory of his mother, who loved apples, and watch it grow from the back window. It seemed a lifetime away and he wondered what his parents would think of him now. Tried not to think about Lobelia sipping tea in front of the hearth. Counting the silver spoons he'd caught her trying to make off with once. Did she keep the photos? Were they still on display on the mantlepiece, smiling at her as if they were happy she had veritably stolen what was theirs before their ashes were even cold and left their son to fend for himself.

Maybe, when he had become the burglar he had promised that Durin he would be, he could yank the rug out from under her and literally steal everything back. His photos and books. perhaps not the house and though he felt he'd miss it, surprisingly the thought didn't upset him all that much. That thought however, did.

He thought about the person he had been then, when all this began compared to whom he was now. A man who plotted burglary and couldn't muster up to even feel guilty he'd missed the first anniversary of his mother's death. His heart had broken and mended into a hardened and gnarled thing.

As he lay in the bed, halfway asleep he mourned the Bilbo Baggins that was. He had changed and not entirely for the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haaah and there I go posting a chapter after a year and a month *nervous tittering* i am SO sorry but at the very least i have not forgotten where this is going so i can still keep writing, albeit slowly, hopefully not as slowly as this though


	9. welcome to your new life

Thorin came to after having drifted off staring sightlessly at the papers on his desk yet again.

Various reports and documents he had already read at least twice over already.

His ears were still ringing from that argument earlier. He had not been yelled at like that for... a very long time. The little man had looked like a sewer rat fresh climbed to the surface up until the point his eyes had flashed with life, he had been taken aback, he had not been prepared.

The door opened soundlessly behind him and in crept his two nephews, he lay down his pen once and for all this evening before turning to greet them with a menacing scowl. “When I said find me a burglar I did not mean drag the first best rat in from the street.”

“We-I know that uncle” Kíli hurried to explain “and we did try but you said, no, you said” he held up a finger valiantly shushing his elder “that it was better we find someone discreet... and it's not like we could just put up flyers.”

Thorin sat down again and began massaging the bridge of his nose with a deep sigh. “I said..find someone discreetLY, which does mean do not put up flyers but also does not mean chase a useless man in for the fun of it.”

Fíli took a pointed breath “Regardless uncle, what is done is done. It shan't be so hard to teach the Burglar how to burgle, and it isn't as if we haven't got the time to do it besides.” which was met by a noncommital grunt and a dismissive handwavey gesture.

Alone once more he took a steadying breath before drawing up a plan for handling his people around the new addition, the burglar was not going to be let anywhere near the rest of the family if he could help it and with a little fortune this entire ordeal might end in his favour after all.

 

Bilbo awoke with a start and could through the haze of his near constant exhaustion not tell what had woken him until it dawned on him that it might've been the absence of sound that had done it. Scrubbing a hand over his worn face he huffed and resigned to being awake.

The narrow window showed only the small visage of the opposing black panes but the light looked like an overcast morning pouring in over the floor. Tugging his old clothes on before trying to make the bed he tutted at himself for not thinking to shower as he'd left marks on the starched white sheets like mud tracks.

Well no matter now he'd simply have to correct it to the next night and what a strange thought that there would be one, and another after that and for quite some time even after that too. Although rather unsafe and all together unsettling as the arrangement was he couldn't help but feel his shoulders let go of some tension and for a moment he had the thought to just crawl back into bed and lay there until someone came calling.

His sensibilities were against it though and so he didn't, besides with the sheets in the state they were in he would, despite being filthier himself, feel unclean laying back down on them.

Meandering back to the common room for a very scheduled and monitored breakfast, as per Oin's instructions, he was met by the two youngsters seemingly waiting for him and no one else. Not even a whisper of a person throughout his walk and even here, no sounds of dishes or cooking from the kitchen despite it being well past breakfast no steps or voices or slamming of doors. But for the scraping of the chair as Kili dragged one out to offer him a seat.

“Did you sleep well, master Baggins?” Fíli inquired as he got situated and flashed a small smile and nod for the helpfulness. “Oh yes, though I fear the sheets are worse for wear I quite forgot to shower yesterday.” he said with a small chuckle.

“No worries. We can show you the closest shower and get you all the supplies as well as provide you with where to put the sheets for cleaning. After breakfast.”

And so there was a clinking of glasses as juice was poured and soup placed infront of him.

Bilbo fought back a sigh. It would probably be a long while yet before he'd be off the liquid diet. Still his stomach did not protest at the soup as it had done at the bread, and the eggs and the sausages and assorted condiments, and for that he was grateful.

The two boys kept on chattering about inane things like the weather and a recently premiered movie or other throughout, he found himself smiling at the scene. He didn't bother chipping in on the conversation but just sitting near them as they went on abouth this and that explosion was enough to make him feel more a part of the world than he had in ages, even before this whole thing started, having never been a very social person.

Oh he had attended family dinners and even hosted some parties of his own but never such common things as going out for coffee with a mate. In fact the person he'd spoken to most had probably been his neighbour Hamfast, whom he shared... used to share a hedge with.

Pushing the maudlin thoughts away along with the empty bowl he indicated that he was done and ready to get going.

 

The shower, as it turns out, was the same place he'd been dragged to yesterday separated from the toilets by a wall. Communal, he pulled his mouth at the revelation but did not protest as he was given a pristine white towel, an unlabled bottle that was probably shampoo and a bar of soap. “We'll leave you to your privacy master baggins, just come up to the lounge when you're done.”

Bilbo nodded and went to undo the buttons of his shirt before catching himself “OH wait!” the two at the door stopped and turned to look at him with raised brows. “I ah” he began, blushing slightly “don't have any clean clothes.”


End file.
